


A dance

by skyholdherbalist



Series: As the moth sees light [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Halamshiral, Longing, Love, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), bad dancing, falling asleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 16:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyholdherbalist/pseuds/skyholdherbalist
Summary: After the madness of the ball, Finn and Cullen have a few quiet moments alone on the balcony.Prompt: Accidentally falling asleep together.





	A dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Minas_Desk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minas_Desk/gifts).



> Thank you so much for this suggestion [Minas_Desk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Minas_Desk/pseuds/Minas_Desk)! This was my first ever prompt and I can't wait for more. 
> 
> This scene lives in the world of my canon _Inquisition_ story [Wind and flame](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9457715/chapters/21396290).

“I was worried for you tonight.”  

The midnight sky glittered over the hills beyond, and above them on the balcony.  Finn leaned against the balustrade, happy to let the cool, white marble keep her standing.  It had been a long night.  Cullen, pinching at the sash of his dress uniform, turned to face her.  The gold at his collar reflected the gold of his hair, set off the amber in his eyes.  She smiled.  

“I was worried, too” she said.  "We were almost thrown out before we ever walked in.“  

He quirked an eyebrow.  "Why?”  

Finn shrugged, and looked out toward the horizon.  "Some frilly noblewoman tried to order me around like one of these poor servants.  She called me ‘rabbit.’  I nearly tossed her into a fountain,“ she said with a guilty smile.  It was easier to play it off as a joke, to not let even him see how much it had hurt her.  

She expected him to laugh.  When he didn’t, she glanced over to see him staring down at the last drunken revelers in the courtyard, his jaw set tight.  "These people,” he spat, shaking his head.  

A tender bloom swelled in her chest.  She leaned closer to him, and brushed his gloved wrist with her fingertips.  He met her eyes, and they shared a shy smile.

“I’ve been wondering, what do you think of this place?” he asked.  "Just…“ He gestured to the courtyard below.  "The finery.  The gardens.”  

Her eyes wandered over the quiet fountains and carefully arranged planters, the white stone cast blue under the night sky.  "Well, it  _is_  beautiful.  The plants are luscious.  The scents are phenomenal.“  She sighed.  "And everything is sculpted within an inch of its life,” she laughed.  "Do you like it?“

He didn’t look at the gardens.  He looked at her, his expression so gentle, and shook his head slowly.  "I prefer something much more natural.  Something wilder,” he said, smirking, and she was glad that was what he preferred.  "Everything here is quite… formal and stiff.“  

“Like these uniforms,” she said, trying to stretch the tight red sleeves of her jacket.  "The sooner I get out of this the better.“

He cleared his throat, trying to hide a smile.  "Being a gentleman,” he said, “I can’t address that statement with any propriety.  But they aren’t all bad.”

“You say that because you’re the only one who looks good in it.”  

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, inching toward her.  

“You like me in this?”

“Actually, I was thinking of Bull,” he said with a laugh.  "He looks very smart.“

She laughed, too.  "It is remarkable to see him in a shirt.”  

They were quiet for a few moments, enjoying the night air, the low bubbling of the fountains below, and music from another room.  Finn watched Cullen, half in her shadow with the moons behind her.  After the fights, the intrigues, the deaths, it calmed her to see him stilled, breathing deeply, his hands steady and folded on the marble rail.  She had worried for him, too.  Those Orlesians had surrounded him like a pack of hungry wolves, and Cullen had looked all too aware of their intentions.  Having lost an empress, and gained an emperor, surely they had found new preoccupations.  She lightly stroked his back, and he looked up, pulled from his thoughts.  He searched her face.  "How much longer do you think this will go on?“ he asked.  

Though she hoped the end of this night was near, she had no clue.  "A few more dances, perhaps?”  She leaned back against the balustrade.  "It does seem odd to me that the ball goes on, after everything.“  

He craned his head around the doorway to look at the dancefloor, and she did the same.  Some couples were still dancing, most were huddled in hushed groups toward the edges, holding their wine glasses with stiff hands.  Their masks did nothing to hide the tension, and excitement, so clear in their every move.  

Cullen turned back.  "But the ball does go on…” he said softly, his eyes cast down.  He smiled to himself, and then held his gloved hand out to her, bowing.  "May I have this dance, my lady?“  

She took in the sight of him, his bright uniform and golden hair aglow in the moonlight, his smile gentle and sure.  He could have been the beautiful son of some visiting lord, or a prince himself.  She saw what those nobles might have been looking for.  But they could not see what she did: the scars he laid bare to the world, and the scars he didn’t show; his eyes longing for something he could not speak into words; his heart.  

She wanted to run to him, to run away with him.  If only they could.  She tilted her head to the side.  "Are you serious?”

The gentle smile strained.  "Don’t make me ask again.“

She reached for his hand, and folded her fingers around his palm as he pulled her close to him, wrapped his arm around her waist and gripped her side with a rigid hand.  Cullen took a wooden step forward, and she tried to follow.  Her own legs felt as though they were made of stone.  He showed none of the grace or smoothness of motion she had seen when he sparred, when he battled.  If his fighting was more like dancing, would either of them make it through a dance?  

Cullen was whispering, nodding, repeating to himself something by rote.  She attempted to mimic his movements, or let him carry her through, but they seemed to move at odds to each other.  He held her tightly, but at a distance.  "You know, you didn’t have to,” she said.  "When I asked you to dance, I was only teasing—”

He shushed her, his eyes closed tight, shaking his head.  "I’m losing count.“  

It might have been hopeless, but his effort made her smile, so she resolved to match it.  When he turned her, she moved with him, rolling forward in his arms—only to step on his foot.  He grimaced, but tried to hide it.  Then he stepped forward onto her foot.  

“To be honest,” she said as they attempted another turn, this time with less pain, “this isn’t my kind of dancing, either.”  

“You looked like an expert with the Duchess,” he said, squeezing her hand as he moved her forward.  

“She did everything!  I was a puppet in her arms.”  Finn moved closer to him, hoping to slow down their steps.  Slower might mean safer.  "She even dipped herself,“ she said.

He laughed, and slowed to match her.  It seemed to work, as he held her more gently, and leaned his head toward her ear.  "And what is your kind of dancing, my lady?”  He said her title with a sweet sarcasm.  

“Ah, well, I suppose…” His breath on her neck, beneath her ear, made her shiver.  "There aren’t steps, as such.  You just… feel it.“  She pulled him closer to her, their bodies pressed tightly together, legs nearly entwined.  They were no longer stepping, but swaying.  

“Like this?”  His voice was barely a whisper.

“No,” she sighed.  "Nothing like this.“  She leaned her head on his shoulder, the red wool of his jacket scratching against her cheek, his body warm through the fabric.  "This is entirely new to me.”  

She felt a low laugh rumble through him, and he stroked the small of her back.  "As it is for me,“ he said.  

They stood together, swaying, holding each other, feeling each other breathe.  "Everyone can see us out here, you know,” Cullen said.  She remembered, suddenly, where they were, and why they were they there.  And she realized it did not matter just then.  

“True,” she answered.  "Do you care?“

His nose was buried in her hair, and he took a deep breath.  "No,” he sighed.  

The music faded from the ballroom.  Soft applause drifted through the open doorway.  The ball was ending.  

Cullen whispered in her ear, “Are we staying here tonight?”

She squeezed his shoulders and relished the pleasure of his breath, his voice, against her skin.  "I believe so,“ she said.  "Why do you ask?”

He pulled away from her to look into her eyes.  "It’s been a trying night,“ he said softly.  "I… I just want to be alone with you.  Away from all this.”  He reached a hand behind her to cup her neck, his fingers weaving gently into her hair.  

“Hmmm.  I would like that,” she said, her eyes falling shut, until he paused and straightened himself.  

“We could leave,” he offered.  "Get the carriage, head back tonight.“

"What about everyone else?” she asked, bringing her hands to stroke the sides of his neck.

At her touch there he reddened, and looked away.  "They can ride with the soldiers, they don’t bite.“  He sighed and moved her hands from him, holding them in his own.  "Or they can hire a carriage, if they insist.  Besides,” he said, “taking the Inquisitor back so she can rest is a fully justifiable use.”  

“Ah, and she needs an escort, of course.”

He smiled slyly.  "I believe I am suited to the task.“  

She considered for a moment.  It sounded too good, too much like what she wanted to do to believe it could really be possible.  But if Cullen said it could be done—serious, practical Cullen—then she believed it.  

"All right,” she said, grinning.  "Let’s get out of here before anyone notices.“  Finn looked around for an exit, and the only one available was the back into the ballroom.  "Want to jump the balcony?”  

He laughed, but pulled her closer, as though he were afraid she meant it.  "No, I think I know a way that doesn’t risk broken bones.“  

They slipped past the glittering ballroom and its last, drowsy dancers to the west stair entryway.  In the dark corridors, dozing sentries slumped in doorways, clutching empty bottles of wine.  Through a maze of shadowy foyers and terraces, they found their way to the stableyard.  While Cullen spoke with the carriage driver—she could hear promises of time off and extra pay for a late night trip—she leaned against the stable wall and looked up at the two moons overhead, one a pale cream, the other dusky rose.  Their orbits often kept them far apart.  Tonight they seemed to embrace.

"Inquisitor!”  Josephine’s sparkling voice rang through the quiet stable.  Finn turned to see her approach with Leliana.  "There you are!“  

Cullen peeked around the side of the carriage, and his face fell.  

"And it appears you had the same idea we had.”  Josephine stood on her toes and peeked into the carriage window.  

“Not staying in Halamshiral,” Leliana finished.  

Josephine surveyed the interior.  "Yes,“ she said, dropping back to her feet, "I believe we will all fit.”  

“Who is all?” Cullen asked, folding his arms tightly across his chest.  

“We four,” she began, counting on her fingers, “Cassandra, Varric, the Iron Bull and Marquis Etienne, who wants to see Skyhold.”

“Maker, we cannot all fit.”  He gestured to the carriage, which did not look capable of containing such a crowd.  "Bull will take up half the carriage on his own.  Hire another,“ he said firmly.  

Finn watched this exchange with a smile.  She knew what they wanted was not quite possible.  This time, anyway.  She would gladly exchange a small desire for a large one in the future, if the world worked that way.  "Cullen,” she said, “we all want to go.”  

He sighed, his lips pursed, but she could see him softening.  "Whoever doesn’t fit,“ he said, "takes another carriage.”  

“Of course,” Josephine replied, patting his arm.  

***

They all fit.  Barely.  Cullen was squeezed into a much smaller space than he would normally ever consider, but Finn nestled tightly beside him made him loath to complain.  Bull made himself smaller, too, and offered his lap to any takers, of which there were none.  

After some tired but pleasant chatter, the yawning began.  The hoofbeats and the bouncing of the carriage lulled everyone into a quiet, dreamy state.  Finn’s head began to nod first.  She leaned against Cullen’s shoulder, her arm drifted over him, her hand on his stomach, and she hugged him close.  She was asleep.  

Everyone looked at Cullen, and he felt himself redden.  They were not usually… public with their affection, but these were certainly constrained circumstances.  He thought about what she had asked him earlier, on the balcony.  Did he care that everyone could see them?  His answer had not changed.  

He put his arm around her and pulled her even closer.  Her head shifted onto his chest, onto the blue sash of his uniform.  He held back a smile.  It felt good, actually, to hold her here, in full view of everyone.  Proud to be the one she wanted, that he could make her feel happy, and safe.  He stroked her arm and leaned his head against hers, his cheek in the soft waves of her hair.  

Soon he, too, was asleep.  

Cassandra sighed, and rested her chin against her hand.  Josephine and Leliana exchanged a smile.  Varric looked at them with an approving nod.  Marquis Etienne paid 50 gold pieces to a smug Iron Bull.  He had stupidly bet Bull that the Inquisitor was Gaspard’s lover.  This was proof enough, for him, that it was not so. 


End file.
